Mother’s Day Poems

standing on you eyes fixed on far horizons how could I know back then you were there

Charlie Rossiter

it was tricky measuring the way she loved us since yardsticks were routinely broken over our backsides

Ralph Murre

Mother

You stand between me and the sun, A gorgeous cloud that casts a chill shadow. Soon you will be gone. Wind whipping you into white feathers The sky swept clean.

I am rock, not water And do not give way to winds. But hold fast Waiting to be drenched In the milky light of morning.

Donna Balfe

EDITOR’S NOTE: Thanks to everyone for the Mother’s Day poetry that was submitted. Once again both judges were entirely in agreement (almost) as to three favorite poems, as we sifted through all the work (names removed), Both of us picked two of the favorite poems featured above, while the last of the three favorites was the toughest choice, selected from a group of at least four other poems which were equally good, all in the running. Yet…

We weighed again all the factors mentioned in the invitation/description of what constituted a good poem. Finally it came down to the nuts and bolts and spirit of language and words and movement and image–what any poem should attempt to express/suggest in capturing the feeling of the experience.

Once again, many of the poems need just a little fine tuning to find acceptance in online or print publication elsewhere. Others need to be re-thought entirely Work with them.

The only order to the poems printed above is that of a timeline: the order in which they arrived in my computer.

I take a good deal of the blame that some of these poems weren’t better. That too many of them were too close to, if not entirely, narrative prose. That I may have led too many poets astray by the harsh but REAL examples I selected…suggesting, alas, either a verbose vernacular or “I hate my mother” poetry absent a real touch. Not that anger, hate, resentment, etc. aren’t perfectly acceptable subject matter for Mom but—let there be some sense of music to the lines, the language you employ. I wish now I had featured as an example at least one ‘gentler’ poem that was not Hallmark sentimental, yet captured an honest sense of mother. Something perhaps like this: —Norbert Blei

In Memoriam M.K.H. (1911-1984)
by Seamus Heaney

When all the others were away at Mass I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one Like solder weeping off the soldering iron: Cold comforts set between us, things to share Gleaming in a bucket of clean water. And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying And some were responding and some crying I remembered her head bent towards my head, Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives— Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

THE WHITE BICYCLE, Part II

EDITOR’S NOTE: I neglected to include the best “White Bicycle” prose piece in Friday’s posting which featured the three poems which best captured the image.

Part II leads off with the story by Jean Casey, followed by an at random selection of good poems which fell into a category the other judge and I saw as ‘the second wave.’ None of these selections are in any kind of order, they’re just good poems—which didn’t quite make the final three for reasons I previously mentioned. (And there are more, which I may or may not get around to featuring sometime.)

I would add one thing to the poetry finalists who were chosen and the prose writer. The other judge is an excellent reader, writer, editor who resides some distance from Wisconsin and would not have known any of the writers had I included their names—which I did not. I certainly expected there would be some disagreement over our choices, and we would have to work this out.

Once the noon deadline was reached, I made my final choices, in no particular order, just three poems and the one story I liked best, then awaited an e-mail from the other judge. There were no phone calls, no e-mail discussion between us. When the e-mail from the other judge arrived later in the day, I was beyond astounded to discover we both picked the exact same works! This almost never happens. —Norbert Bleib

The White Bicycle

by
Jean Casey

He had never won anything before, not a single thing, and now he had this amazing jackknife with all sorts of important attachments which made an important and heavy weight in his pocket. And all because of the Old Ellison Days parade. Oh, he knew it wasn’t a grand thing, but it was a yearly event with fire engines, some folks on horseback, an honor guard of veterans, a few simple floats, and a bunch of kids on decorated bikes and some politicians in shiny cars. This year they announced prizes to include the bikes. He didn’t give it much thought, because he was never a part of anything like that. Fat and slow with a hampering stammer, he hung around the edges of life. His 6th grade teacher tried, because she knew he was bright inside, but he avoided her help.

But this year, before the parade, he felt an urge to enter, especially knowing about the grand prize for bikes, that knife! It came to him one moonlit night when he lay in his bed before sleep that he could avoid somehow being seen as his lumpy self if he…yes! If he went covered up…yes, indeed! As a ghost! Everything must be white! His old bike was a dark maroon, rusty, tired. But, if he painted it…!

No way could he get by with this unless he consulted his mother. In the morning he found her with her mouth filled with clothes pins hanging a wash on the outside lines. She listened, fastening some socks with the stored pins. “The only white we got around here is flat wall paint left over from the living room, but you can use it, and you’ll need an old sheet to wear. I have one. We’ll have to cut eye holes in it, but that’s okay. I’ve got a chain link belt, come to think of it, that ought to help you cinch it in.”

He said, excited, “I think I’ll ask dad for his old straw hat! If he let me, I could paint it white too! I think a ghost should have a hat!” He didn’t stammer, she noticed.

Parade day, he said not a word to anyone, played his part, accepted his prize from the puzzled judge who asked for and didn’t get his name, because this ghost never talked. And now, the bike was propped up in back of the barn, and he would redo it bright red. His dad gave him money for the paint. The prize would stay in his pocket, unless he was at home whittling.

…remember the rides all the bikes in my life now white as ghost shadows.

Bonnie Hartmann

THE WHITE BICYCLE

by Sharon Auberle

when everything is falling apart my friend, when you’re stuck in the horse latitudes mired in a dark night of the soul when you’re no longer sleek sexy and smooth

find the white bicycle climb on that fat-tired slow beast pedal and huff and laugh like you mean it whistle sing shout and cuss use words your mama told you never to

push that bike up a mountain when you get to the top when you’re near to over the hill when night is falling fast jump on whoop and holler

ride that old bicycle down no brakes allowed fireflies and stars your only light and when you wipe out (and yes, honey, you will) darkness like a big pillowy woman will come along and wrap you up whisper everything’s gonna be allright…

no worries, baby, she’ll carry all your broken pieces home…

A WHITE BICYCLE

by Chris Halla

Parked here by an old man shaped like a question mark

Hoping a young girl in a yellow dress would eventually steal

his white bicycle away on a green, spring afternoon

The White Bicycle

by Alice D’Alessio

I dreamt I saw it standing all alone beside the blue barn wall. Ghost, what are you doing here? I asked, recognizing every feature – the torn seat, the gash in the front tire from the time we hit the tree; the dented fenders, handlebars minus their grips minus the bell that Mickey Loman stole; and best of all, the fancy chain guard – to keep my pants from catching on the chain and getting greasy. My first bike, bright and shiny blue it was and trimmed in red. It meant the war was over.

The shadowy background made the bike seem luminous. You’re lookin’ pretty good, I said, for an old guy. And then I thought I heard it whisper, You too. Let’s go race down Kaiser Hill, shall we? There’s still time.

The White Bicycle

By Don Fraker

Nearly an albino, But for her leathery dark barnacle of a seat, Tattered, betraying her age — Paint no cure for that condition.

Mobya was my vessel, Her now-departed basket ferrying books From their orderly, patient moorings at the library To the needy harbor of their offloading.

Got her in junior high, Whitened her in unspoken tribute to the first teacher who credited me with adult capacities, His brine-soaked incantations of albatross, and mutiny, and whale, Setting me a-sail on new-seen old adventures.

Though now my daughter’s ark, No more the carrier of tomes Of late evanesced, ether-borne, Her bleached carapace transports me still.

THE WHITE BICYCLE

by Ralph Murre

the way she rode it as much on clouds as on concrete

as much from as toward on a pavement of dream

the way I saw or didn’t see the way it didn’t seem she any longer needed me to run along beside

the way the ride then circled back in setting sun

the thing about a cycle is the way it’ll repeat

her white bike may come back may lean up again against my shack

who knows when a cycle or circle is complete?

Resurrection

by Paula Kosin

Even though it is not Easter My mother hauled her old bike, Tired, rusty but full Of fond memories, Out of the depths of the garage And in the cool shade Painted it white The color of the Risen Lord Of new life And alleluias And once she started She just spray painted the whole damn Thing Tires, spokes, chain, pedals, handlebars Every nook and cranny Figuring that if a little paint made it look better Then a lot would make it look wonderful And the dirt and scratches and rust disappeared Before our eyes Like a miracle And now it stands outside Starkly propped against the blue sky garage Drying and poised perhaps For her ascension into Heaven

Editor’s Note:Ralph Murre began as a farm boy from elsewhere Wisconsin. I’m not familiar with his entire life history, but the rural is still in him and along the way other interests claimed his attention. Job titles include: dreamer, mariner, architecture—which he still practices for survival, when the words don’t call him home. Or shall I say “the sea”?

Ralph Murre loves water. In the deepest part of his heart, the sea in all of its manifestations, lyrically, matter-of-factly, speaks to him, sets him adrift. He’s writes with a true hand about a lot of ordinary things as well, as many poets do, but many poets don’t hear the sirens, don’t reach deep enough within for the extraordinary, as Ralph does, transforming line, rhythm, feeling, image, idea (note too: wry humor) in ways most uniquely his and inevitably ours.

Though I’ve lived in this county for over forty years, I never really knew him. A passing nod of recognition upon occasion…some knowledge of his working in the local building trades. “Great Northern Construction” comes to mind. I remember him sending me a poem (a good one) about a local character/icon that I had profiled in my first book about the county. That was my first inkling he had any interest in poetry at all. Sometime later he appeared in my annual writing workshop class at The Clearing. A beginner? A late bloomer most likely, born in 1944. Already shaped significantly by life…already a tone of voice in his words on the page. Little I could do but suggest some other directions: There. Try that way. Then over there. He had already launched himself…headed into those waters all writers dip into at the beginning, inevitably finding or not finding them too cold, too deep, too dark or just right. Smooth sailing.

Since then (not that long ago) he has developed into one of our more significant ‘local’ poets, where there is more good writing to be found than you can “shake a stick at”, as they used to say–which pretty much dates me. As I recall, when I moved here in the late l960’s, I was the only writer in the landscape on a serious mission to survive by my words alone–with the exception of a “little-old-lady” poet, Frances May of Sturgeon Bay, whom I did not meet (come to love and highly respect) for at least three years after my arrival.

There was the local newspaper, of course, a couple of local newspaper writers who entertained the folks with columns, gee whiz news, basking in local ‘celebrity’ (well deserved), all of whom may have penned a little book of local color or were thinking of it someday. But that was it.

Since that long time ago, I am happy to report from this oft called “Paradise” a plethora of fine poets and writers in our midst: Ralph Murre obviously one, with books, publications, readings, local and state organizational activities to his credit, a highly regarded man of few and many good, right words; Robert M. Zoschke, poet, novelist, cantankerous essayist, author of DOOR COUNTY BLUES, MADE IN AMERICA, editor/contributing writer toREFLECTIONS UPON THE 50th ANNIVERSARY OF JACK KEROUAC’S ON THE ROAD…another, (though not so obviously) an up-and-comer, our resident ‘outsider’ (reminiscent of my own difficult outsider years here…born to write to piss some people off), while I shuffle anonymously into the twilight these days, a few books of local interest trailing behind me, more than satisfied with the beauty and growth of this peninsular paradise, the wonder of earth, air, water expecting no less than the best within us–words and images…poems, stories, books, paintings, photographs, music…whether our subject be local or far away from here.

A good place to grow. To chart a voyage of discovery. To set sail. To just be.

Scout’s Honor

Merit badges for tying knots — the bowline, the sheepshank, the clove hitch. Merit badges for whittling the likenesses of dead presidents and woodland animals, and of course, for assistance given to the feeble in their never-ending quest to cross the road.

Maybe they should keep handing them out.

The badge for showing up every day right down to the day they tell you not to show up tomorrow, A merit badge for the day your infant son needs major surgery. Another for that day he’s grown and buys his first motorcycle. Badges for each of your daughter’s tattoos and piercings. Diamond insets if you can’t really mention what’s been pierced. A merit badge, or, at least, a colorful neckerchief as your party loses another one. (But it could be taken back if you move to Canada.) Bronze medals for burying parents. Silver for friends. You’d rather die than win the gold. A merit badge and letter of commendation the day you actually give up your abuse of anything, or anyone. And a little badge of semi-precious material for every day that you get out of bed and wear a brave costume. One for that confident smile on your face as your knees tremble beneath the table.

VIII.

I may go back to blues, back to blue-black times when rhymes and little pills didn’t cure the ills. Joy-killer realities, banalities like paying utilities – but it’s so hard to paint in the dark – back to a fridge of don’t-know glowing meats, rancid eats, few beers, pickled herring, pickled beets, picking up the beat of trash-can slam, picking up jobs of poor-I-am and picking up women in good-night dreams, bad-night bars, rusted cars in South-Side parking-lot wake-ups, staggering to fourth-floor walk-ups, singing blue of our break-ups, if we’re singing at all.

Prayers of Old Men

I’ll bet you think the old men are praying to be young men with young lovers, but they kneel now beside your bed and pray for the things young men haven’t heard of yet – the high plateaus of you and the rivers rushing to the deep sea of you. Old men pray for height and depth and the quivering leaf of your ear touched by a tongue, for that quiet cove of you where they may lie sheltered for one more evening. They pray for the light of sunrise in your eyes and they pray to believe in whoever they pray to for they want to believe in everything, because believing in nothing didn’t work. And they pray for the touch of you on me. They’re all praying for you and for me, the high ground of you towering above me, and the river, they’re praying now for the river of you, and they’re praying for me to go adrift in the river to the sea of you, to the sea of you, praying I’ll be lost at sea in you and they’re secretly praying that this storm will drown me in the depths of you, because they are old men and they know I am a sailor, and they know that drowning is the only way for sailors to get home.

THE PROSE POEM:

Alice D’Alessio, Al DeGenova, Ralph Murre, Susan O’Leary

Editor’s Note: I presented a weekend writing workshop, “the poetry of prose” on Washington Island almost two weeks ago. I see prose poetry not so much as a strict form but more as a way to make a clunky prose line breathe, sometimes sing.

It was a good weekend of writing, discussion, reading…with great participants, as always–mostly my tried and true, solid bunch of Clearing advanced writing students, with solid credentials of publishing and/or book credits behind them.

I learn a lot from them, whether it’s my annual Clearing class (beginning and advanced) or this new, autumn-weekend writing workshop we established on the Island a year ago–thanks to Karen Yancey, who handles the registration details, keeps the party going on the Island; Dick and Mary Jo Purinton, who provide the perfect setting for Island living and learning; and Jude Genereaux, who facilitates communications, easing much of the burden from my back, especially last minute glitches. My thanks again to all of them.

Without going into definitions galore of prose poetry or class instructions, assignments etc., I promised the class a lot of work–and a little exposure on “Poetry Dispatch,” if things went well. So I thought I would share with readers three of the prose poems the students themselves selected (by secret ballot) from their reading on Sunday morning, when each writer read a favorite, best ‘polished-to-perfection’ prose poem of his or her own from class assignments just the day before.

Everyone quietly listened to everyone else, then secretly noted on a piece of paper (folded and passed on to me) the three favorites. The three favorites became four because of a tie.

The Left Hand Speaks

by Alice D’Alessio

Perfect, save for one flawed knuckle, beautifully seamed and creased, I am content to be what I am, the left hand, the second hand, the neglected hand. For I have a secret.

It is true that my neatly fitting skin is turning blotchy now, stretching into ridges and crevices. Yet it does its job so well, wrapping tight the underworkings, the critical bone and tendon, the rivers, streams and estuaries of blood and other juices that keep the fingers active and lubricated. It protects from invasion of those enemies that would enter and do great harm.

After seven decades of flexing and gripping, I am capable and strong, my five digits line up like soldiers for review, from short to tall, and back to short, to my sturdy thumb, altered a bit at the base with a lovely triangular scar. How well they stand at attention.

It’s true my partner, the right hand, gets all the glory. It is the one extended to shake the hands it meets, it picks up the pen and writes, brushes teeth, waves, plays a major role in buttoning, tying, stirring. But behold – on keyboards we are equal! And furthermore, there were glory days, now gone, when I was supreme. When we teased that violin into music, the runs and trills, the haunting melodies – it was I and I alone who found the notes, knew exactly where to press the string – never flat nor sharp – to make the purest sound. All the other one did was saw that bow across and back, across and back. I made the music, created the sweetness of tone with my vibrato. I, the genius twin, blessed with the gift of perfect touch. The other one, purely utilitarian. I rest my case.

At the Ancient Pond

by Albert DeGenova

Drunk with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please. But get drunk – Charles Baudelaire

The hanging Spanish moss looks one-hundred years younger today, I’ve drained the ancient pond through a red and white striped straw and licked the salt from the rim, the frog sings plop and I’m tokin’ on his flip flopping feet, on mind altering harmonic resonance, the whole band is in tune – the cool cats, the birds, the wind, the dirty swamp, cars speeding by pulling boat trailers, the hammering on the roof, the knife as it slices the bread, the dentist’s drill, the kid next door practicing guitar. Wake up!… Plop goes the blue-orange sunrise. Plop goes the weasel. What is the sound of stagnant water, water filling the bathtub or poured from a bucket, water as it gulps air swirling down the toilet? What is the sound of Eve’s first orgasm echoing through the universe? Of one hand clapping?Plop! Plop! Plop!

Stitches in Time

by Ralph Murre

It, too, is called a thimble; this heavy galvanized fitting I splice into three-strand hawser on deck. Outbound tug Maria. My old man at the helm.

But the notion of “thimble” takes me back to that other sort, silvery there on the third finger of her arthritic hand. Grandma Maria. Seems it’s always been there, protecting that fingertip from the little stabs she knew were coming, leaving the rest of her bare to the unforeseen wounds that would come. There was the thimble as she pushed and pulled needle and thread, stitch on stitch, as depression flour sacks became dresses, as a spare blanket became a suit. Stitch on stitch, still, as my christening gown was shaped. White on white, as a tiny row of sailing boats was embroidered upon it. Rising infant to be bestowed beneath crosses of cathedral’s spires on the high hill. And her father before her, sewing stitch on stitch, white on white, patching sails blown out ‘round The Horn, stitch on everlasting stitch, triangle needle and leather palm, from Roaring Forties to Tropic Trades, and more than once, stitching a shroud: a benediction, a blessing. Fallen sailor to be bestowed beneath crosses of brigantine’s rig on the high sea. Aroma of pine tar, beeswax, mutton tallow. A very old man, long at anchor, calls out “Daughter, bring me rum.” She looks up from her sewing and agrees, “A thimbleful, Father,” as an ocean of time slides by, sewn with a meridian of stitches.

HEAD IN HAND

by Susan O’Leary

The hands come to the face to hold, to hold, as a rounded comfort to sustain. And in that comfort, the balm of touch. The hands become the Pieta of self, embracing with such tenderness, such desire to undo crucifixion, to bring solace to the impossible, to physically counsel grief.

With their sure shield, knowledge and reality can be shut out. At least in this moment. At least as, echoing their curve, the shoulders bend forward, the neck bows, and with eyes closed, words unspoken, breath halted, the body forms its own safe cave of retreat.

They have arrived too late. Or like Mary have had to remain and unwillingly witness sorrow. But their paired presence signals we are not alone. The earth spinning, they are the space that holds spinning in its orbit.

VERSE WISCONSIN

Issue 101, Winter 2010, $6

It’s good to see Linda Aschbrenner’s excellentFREE VERSE, alive and well, newly christened VERSE WISCONSIN, all dressed up (cover, design, glossy paper, etc.) looking great, the Wisconsin (and beyond) poetry torch passed on to the very capable editorial hands of co-editors Sarah Busse and Wendy Vardaman. If the first issue ofVERSE WISCONSIN is any indication of the direction and depth these editors seem determined to take it, we’re all in good hands.

I was a firm believer and supporter of the old FREE VERSEfrom the beginning. I was especially thankful that Linda kept the pages open to new poets, young and old, writers looking for and needing their first taste of print: the word on the page. Though it has always been a challenge to break into little mags, from indies to university publications, it grows increasingly difficult these days to find print, period, not to mention experienced and honest editors who keep the door open for one and all—the quality of writing alone, being the determining factor. Not who-you-know, not a long list of previous publications, not all the professional ass-kissing that takes place amongst the usual suspects. Linda Aschbrenner deserves much credit for nurturing poets and poetry in Wisconsin (and beyond) since 1998.

There are over fifty poets represented in this first issue of VERSE WISCONSIN under Sarah Busse and Wendy Vardaman. I wish I could feature all of them. But you’ll have to buy a copy—or better yet, subscribe to the magazine, (have your local library subscribe) to read all the good poems I was not able to feature.

Home, Sweet Home

by Antler, Milwaukee, WI

A mouse in its nest inside a moose skull…looks up at miniature icicles……..dandling from cracks in the bone
above her head,
Silver icicles inside a moose skull…as darkness falls…….and the cold wind howls
while the mouse feels…….safe and warm-
home, sweet home.
But one night she froze..and come spring……there was a mouse skull..inside a moose skull……and inside the mouse skull
A spider spun a web…and lived all spring–
home, sweet home,
and when it died
A tiny mite moved in…inside where the spider’s brain was…….and lived all summer-……..home, sweet home,……….before it died,
So there was a skull in a skull in a skull in a skull…causing a poet’s brain in its skull to think…..isn’t the Earth in the Sun’s skull…..the way his poems…..are in his head?
And the sun in the Galaxy’s skull…..and the Galaxy in the Universe’s skull
and the Universe in the Big Bang’s skull and the Big Bang in Eternity’s skull…….and Eternity in Infinity’s skull and…. Home, sweet home.

Our Body

by Bruce Taylor, Eau Claire, WI

It’s too heavy
in the early morning
too easy to lay down
lightly late at night.

If only this were bigger
and this smaller,
if these were like that
and that was blond..

If this could be longer
harder, sharper,
if that weren’t too soft,
so palpable and moist.

If only it didn’t fill
and empty, didn’t ache
so sometimes to be held
and others to be let go.

Miniatures, a Quintet

by Philip Dacey, New York, NY

1. Ars Poetica

I’ll leave the porchlight on for you,
the mother says.
That’s what the poet says, too.

2. At the Feeder

Is the favorite word
Of the hummingbird
Stillness or motion?

But I’m the same:
Should I stay home
Or cross an ocean?

3. The Suicide

I always liked
to be early
for my appointments.

4. Hanging the Wash Outdoors

My mother stood
with wooden clothespins in her mouth,
a fan of benevolent little cannons
she plucked out one at a time
and squeaked down over my heart,
which is still on the line.

5. Tanka

I have written
too many poems;
they live now
in refugee camps,
inside tents.

other Norbert Blei web pages

Please click the arrow to see the complete list of writers on Poetry Dispatch & other Notes from the Underground, then click a writers name to see all entries. The number next to the writers name indicates how many postings belong to this category.

Please click the arrow to see the complete list of writers on Poetry Dispatch & other Notes from the Underground, then click a writers name to see all entries. The number next to the writers name indicates how many postings belong to this category.

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Norbert Blei | 1935 – 2013

On the back roads of Door County again

Norbert Blei – 2012

Photo by Bobbie Krinsky

Norbert Blei – 2012

Photo by Jeffrey Winke

Norbert Blei – 2011

Photo by Sharon Auberle

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